


The Adventure of the New Owners

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:57:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The house at Undershaw has waited a long time for someone to carry on the tradition...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the New Owners

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Sherlock's Home contest for Save Undershaw. However, due to the contest runners arbitrarily closing the submissions window 24 hours early, I wasn't able to get it in. So I figured I'd post it here.
> 
> Some of my personal backstory for Sherlock, as well as an explanation for how it is he grew up in a world that didn't know who Sherlock Holmes was.

Hindhead, Surrey  
November, 1980

Violet swung her legs out of the passenger seat of the tiny Citroen and pushed herself to her feet, feeling heavy and awkward. Being seven months pregnant would do that to you. Although she didn’t remember feeling quite this clumsy with her first child. She smoothed out the creases in her flowered skirt, and settled her cardigan more firmly about her shoulders. 

“Dear, you really shouldn’t….” Her husband came around from the other side of the car, his grey eyes gently remonstrative. 

“Nonsense,” she said briskly, smiling up at him. He was tall and lean and had dark hair, neatly trimmed. “The doctor said that I could get around as much as I liked.” She tucked her hand into his elbow. “But now that you’re here, I won’t refuse an arm to lean on.”

They made their way around to the front of the house, and Violet stifled a gasp. It was made of brick, and big, with four gables and three chimneys. And yet there was a warm coziness to it, a comfortableness that made her feel calm and centered. It almost felt... familiar, as if she'd been here before, although she knew that she never had. “Look at that,” she murmured to her husband, pointing to the three sets of curving bay windows – one upstairs and two on the ground level. 

“That would be a perfect place for your orchids,” he said, patting her arm. 

The front door opened, and Mrs. Ludlow, the real estate agent, emerged onto the porch, waving gaily at them. “No trouble finding it, then?”

“Well, obviously not,” Violet muttered under her breath, causing her husband to chuckle. 

As they neared the entrance, Mrs. Ludlow pushed the front door open and declared, “Welcome to Undershaw!” They followed her into an impressive two-story foyer, light and airy. “The house has eleven bedrooms, a dining room with room to seat 30 guests, a study, a drawing room, and a billiard room – without the table, I’m afraid,” she said. 

“Ooh, Siger, look,” Violet said, drawn to the tall stained glass window to the left of the entryway. 

“Heraldic crests,” her husband mused, folding his hands behind his back and leaning his tall frame forward to examine the brightly colored designs. 

“The first owner was very interested in heraldry.”

“Was he a historian?” Violet asked.

“No, a doctor. And also an author. His name was Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Violet shook her head. “I’ve not heard of him.”

“His works aren’t read much today. He was quite popular in the late 1800’s, though. Wrote stories about a man – a detective – named Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes?” Violet smiled up at her husband. “Why, Siger, that’s the same name as ours!”

He glanced at her, then turned back to examining the window. “It’s not an uncommon name, my dear.” 

“I guess not,” she said, feeling unaccountably disappointed. For a moment, it had felt as though the house was glad to see them. “May I see the rooms upstairs?” she asked. 

Mrs. Ludlow led her up the main staircase. “Why are these stairs so shallow?” Violet asked. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.” The trip up a normal flight of stairs would have taken her much longer, in her gravid condition.

“Mr. Conan Doyle built this house in 1895 for his wife, Louise – only he called her ‘Touie’. She had tuberculosis, you see, and Hindhead had been recommended to him for the air. He designed the house with her ease in mind. The doors all open both ways as well.” She’d reached the upper landing and demonstrated with one of the bedroom doors. “See?”

“Marvelous.” Siger had come up behind them and was examining the door minutely. “Ingenious.”

“And here’s the study.”

It was a pleasant room, spacious, yet cozy. Violet could imagine the walls lined with bookcases, with a massive wooden desk and a chair upholstered in dark leather in the center. “I wonder why his stories fell out of favor?” she mused aloud.

“Well, it didn’t help that he killed his main character off,” said Mrs. Ludlow.

“He killed Sherlock?” Violet gasped. Something clenched at her heart.

“Yes,” Mrs. Ludlow said, nodding sagely. “Seems he was tired of writing about him. Said he took his mind from better things. Wanted to concentrate on other stories, other characters. But none of them were ever quite as popular.”

“That’s too bad,” Violet said. She felt the child inside her kick, and rubbed the side of her belly absently. 

“Once he'd had this place built and had moved in, it was rumored that he planned to write another book or two, bring Sherlock back to life, as it were. But then his wife’s health took a bad turn, and….” She shook her head sadly. “I guess he just didn’t have the heart to go back to it. It’s a shame.” 

“Yes, it is.”

Mrs. Ludlow brightened. “This’d be a lovely room for a nursery, though. When are you due, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Violet smiled. “Not until January.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Don’t know.” She followed Mrs. Ludlow out onto the landing, where Siger joined them, having exhausted the mystery of the doors. “My son says it’s a boy, though. A brother.”

“He’s a smart one, then? What’s his name?”

“Mycroft.” This from Siger. “And he’s generally right about most things, despite being only seven years old.”

Violet shook her head. “He has the most astonishing ability to figure out things about you from the tiniest clues. But don’t ask him how he does it. He’ll drive you mad with the details.” 

The three of them headed down to the ground floor, Violet clutching the banister to help manage her descent. “There’s servants’ quarters at the back of the house, if you’d like to see those,” Mrs. Ludlow said.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Siger’s mouth. “I’m afraid that’s not one of the perquisites of being an MP. Although the boys might enjoy having their own area to retreat to, especially as they get older.” 

“There’s also a stable, and tennis courts, although they need quite a bit of work. And, of course, there’s four acres of woods to explore.”

Violet raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Oh, good. Perhaps Mycroft will get some exercise.”

Siger didn’t rise to her bait, but instead turned to Mrs. Ludlow and gave her a slight bow. “Madam, thank you for showing us the property. We must be off now, but we’ll be in touch.” He offered his arm to his wife. 

As they made their way back to the car, Violet felt her husband pat her hand. “So, I’m assuming we’re making an offer?” he said.

“Of course,” she replied. She stopped and took a deep breath, tasting the clean, fresh Surrey air, then turned, taking a long look at the grand house and the tall pines that encircled it. It almost felt as if the house was sad that she was leaving, as if it was going to miss her. “Siger, this place is wonderful. It’s a perfect place for our boys to grow up.”

“I see you’ve started to believe Mycroft about the baby,” he said, opening the door and helping her into the car, then getting in on the other side..

“As have you. And as you said, he’s rarely wrong.” She caressed her belly contemplatively, feeling the movements of the child within. “Siger?”

“Hm?”

“Why don’t we name him Sherlock?”

“What a novel idea.”

She rolled her eyes at his pun, then gazed out the window, watching the house grow small behind them. _We’ll be back soon_ , she promised. “And perhaps he’ll be a detective when he grows up.”


End file.
